


Ghosts That We Knew

by luckyfilbert



Series: Not With Haste [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:05:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckyfilbert/pseuds/luckyfilbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coffee doesn't have any more of an effect on Steve than alcohol, but he still finds himself drawn to the shop down the road.</p>
<hr/><p>In which Steve has an unexpected meeting in a coffeeshop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts That We Knew

**Author's Note:**

> This comes after the events of Awake My Soul. My plan is that all the works in this series are going to build on each other, but not necessarily build TO anything. 
> 
> My plan is also to name them all after Mumford songs. Apparently.

Coffee doesn't have any more of an effect on Steve than alcohol, but he still finds himself drawn to the shop down the road. It's quiet. Or not really quiet, maybe, with the hum and clack of the machines behind the bar, the chatter of the baristas with each other and the regulars, the radio music Steve is gradually beginning to recognize. But it's calm. Slow. Off the commuters' path, this particular shop is frequented by people coming to stay, to talk or read or work, or just to sit. If he wears his glasses and keeps to the couch at the back, no one gives him a second glance.

Sitting here, for a while, he can forget he's in the future.

He sips his Viennese drip coffee--he likes the mochas and lattes Natasha orders for him, but the one time he tried the terminology he's not sure what he ended up drinking--and considers the patrons around him. The woman ordering now has bright hair, sheared off in mint crops at her neck and falling in lanky blue strands over her eyes. Steve trades his coffee for a pencil and sketches her quickly. Her smile is the twin of one his mother used to give, quick and awkward. 

Next is the boy behind the bar. A thick red headband holds his stubby dreadlocks back from his face; thick-rimmed square glasses almost obscure his eyes. He catches Steve watching and grins, lifting a paper cup in salute. They've done this before.

Steve is engrossed in a study of the scene out the windows, quick lines of movement and sunbeams, when the couch next to him dips with a weight. 

He looks up and into Bucky's eyes.

"Hey." That's Buck, with his one-sided smile. 

"Hey! Hi." Steve drops his pencil. It leaves a gray slash down his page. "Hi."

Bucky closes his eyes and leans his head back against the couch. His feet blindly find their way to rest on the coffee table and he settles in with a sigh. "Natasha said you might be here."

Steve wipes at the smear while he unpacks that statement. Natasha knew where he spent his time, clearly. She took it as her responsibility, even without SHIELD around. And Bucky was still living with her or near her. That was reassuring. 

And he had come looking for Steve. That was reassuring too.

Steve clears his throat. "It feels a bit like home," he explains.

Bucky's grunt points eloquently to the folk rock, the fruity creamy smells, the fifteen colors of hair in one room alone. That gets a rueful smile from Steve. "Not much does."

Bucky _hmms_ quietly, and Steve risks a quick glance. Buck's eyes are still closed, so he allows himself a longer look before turning back to his sketchbook. It's only the second time he's seen Bucky since their reunion at the Monument. His eyes may be closed, but he's not relaxed. There's a hard crease in his brow and a tight set to his jaw, lines that were never in the old Bucky's face, not even during the war. He holds his left arm stiffly against his side; the metal prosthetic quivers with the effort of immobility. And his right hand, scarred more than Steve wants to think about, twitches slightly where it rests on his knee.

It's only the second time he's seen Buck, but probably the fortieth time he's thought about that hug. Bucky felt so small and tense in his arms; he felt so young and tired in his. But their next meeting was almost impersonal, Natasha and Bruce and the two of them sitting down for ice cream. Natasha teased Steve for getting plain vanilla. Someone mentioned the weather. It all felt very normal. 

This does not feel normal.

As Steve looks at Bucky, words from that file Natasha gave him flash through his brain. _Case 17. First subject to reach Phase 3. Exhibiting minimal signs of resistance. Increased voltage & dosage by factor of 2.7._ And a later entry, _Subject exhibits no signs of resistance._

Steve had never missed getting drunk as much as he had reading those words.

Slowly the sounds of the cafe filter back into Steve's head, dulling the memory of that night. He takes a breath and returns to his sketchbook, but instead of the view through the windows, he finds himself looking at Bucky mirrored in them. Limited to reflection, Bucky becomes shadows and highlights. His face is the high, boyish plane of his forehead and cheekbones. Hidden in shadows, the tension around his eyes almost disappears.

He doesn't realize he's actually drawn it until Bucky makes an appreciative murmur beside him. "I look pretty handsome like that."

Steve eyes him sidelong. "Artistic license."

Bucky laughs outright. A snort escapes Steve as he adds the finishing touches. "There." He holds it out for Bucky to see. "A true Adonis."

Bucky leans closer to look, elbow and shoulder touching Steve's. "Did you draw much? Back then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Before. . ." Bucky straightens to wave his hand in a gesture that takes in Steve, the cafe, everything. 

"Before the war?" Steve's chest is starting to feel very cold. "I've been drawing since I was eight, Buck; you know that."

"I don't."

"You. . ."

Bucky massages his left arm and gives Steve an apologetic look. "I don't remember."

_Voltage concentrated in cranium to induce elimination of self,_ the file had said. It shouldn't surprise him this much. Steve tells himself. But his throat is dry and his pencil is gouging marks against his thumb.

"You're in there." Bucky squeezes his eyes shut again. "Natasha, Bruce. The whole year, mostly. Just. . ."

"But you knew." His voice is small. He feels about twelve--no, eleven, when Bucky decided Steve was embarrassing and ignored him at Frank Cirello's birthday party. "You knew me."

"You were . . . I don't know, Steve. You were there, but just your face, and . . . feelings. You looked different. I didn't want to hurt you."

Bucky turns his head toward Steve and opens his eyes. They are only barely less empty than the Winter Soldier's.

"I'd never wanted not to hurt someone. Seemed important."

Steve is frozen looking into Bucky's tense, empty face. He can't say anything past the clog in his throat. There's a pain in his thumb where he's driving the pencil in.

"Hey, hey." Bucky reaches toward Steve and grabs the pencil to make him stop. "Watch it, you'll hurt yourself."

Steve swallows hard.

"Is that--" Bucky frowns at the pencil. "Did I use to say that?"

Somehow Steve manages a laugh. "At least five times a day."

Bucky's eyes flick up to Steve's and he grins. It's not his old grin, cocksure and joking, but it's something. "See? It'll come back."

_Elimination of self_. But they hadn't eliminated his self, Steve thinks, not quite. Just his past. Steve considers telling Bucky, but Buck's closed his eyes again and he looks so small, sprawled there, his feet on the table and his right arm still stretched across Steve, pencil forgotten, and Steve doesn't want to say anything about electrical cranial shock. Later. There will be a later.

Steve puts down his pencil and takes Bucky's hand in his. Buck stirs and tightens his grip. His palm is warm and rougher than it used to be; the back of his hand is a web of scars, but one faint mark is familiar.

"Bucky. . . ."

"Stevie?"

Steve smiles. He can't think what to say.

Bucky's brow creases suspiciously. "Are you going to make another grand emotional speech?"

"I was considering it."

"D'you think it can wait? Just a little? I'm so tired."

Steve runs his thumb along the scar on Bucky's knuckles. It's a thin, faded line, left over from the time Buck punched Frank Cirello in the teeth and walked home with his arm around Steve. 

"Yeah. It can wait."

**Author's Note:**

> Things are not as rosy as they appeared in part 1! And not just because I forgot to talk about Bucky's prosthetic arm in that one!
> 
> Starting to build more speech patterns for Cap and Buck; I don't know if they're screen-accurate, but hopefully they're at least distinguishable. Also fiddling with my own style. Last time I sneezed over the comma shaker and sprinkled them like pepper across my paper.


End file.
